


In Fleet's Clothing

by Sys



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 03:38:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11500992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sys/pseuds/Sys
Summary: I'd been meaning to write a little "what did Chakotay experience in POV" piece. Instead I ended up writing a little post-episode tag.





	In Fleet's Clothing

His door chimes ripping him out of meditation. There are approximately three people who’d visit this late. And only one who’d do so without a prior announcement. It’s not a good time, but they’ll face each other eventually. He couldn’t explain distancing himself from his favorite engineer, the most loyal among his friends. Still he waits, composing himself. Facing her alone in his quarters suddenly seems inappropriate in ways it never did before. 

A beat. Another. And he exhales. Quietly.

“Come in.”

It takes a moment till the door opens. Another till she steps inside when it does. She remains beside the door when it closes behind her, arms crossed protectively, head lowered in a way she rarely does. He’s used to her eyes, sparkling with anger, or, much rarer, tears. Crowfeet adorning them sometimes as she grins, one corner of her mouth quirking up in amusement. It’s a bad sign, seeing her like this. But if she’d done irreparable damage to the warp core he’d have heard about it already. And these days she’d probably confess to the Captain directly.

The image of her neck, exposed to his mouth creeps up unbidden. But he can’t confess to that, not before he has meditated, seeking council on how to proceed. It is a betrayal of her trust, among a lot of other things. And the impact might upset the shaky balance among the crew. Peace among the Maquis is difficult to keep, even with B’Elanna reliably beside him. But that isn’t his first concern as it should be. Losing her friendship, her support... she’s still looking at the floor when she begins to speak.

“I talked to the Captain.” Her tone is strained, wary. “She recommended that I should face what happened rather than leave it behind.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“He-pretended-to-be-you.” 

It takes him a moment to readjust the speed of her statement in his head. And another to grasp the meaning.

“What happened?”

She tightens her arms, but refuses to reply.

“You too.” He says, unable to stop his disbelief before he realizes just what he’s admitted to. Her eyes dart up, but he can’t face them. Not now. It’s different for her. He doesn’t report to her. She hasn’t taught him the ways of the Maquis or made him accept a new Captain’s command. He isn’t hers to protect. She is.

“You want me.” It sounds uncertain, but it’s a statement of fact, not a question. “Was it... good?”

He looks at her pointedly and she drops her gaze again. He didn’t expect her to accept his silence so readily. That’s worse than anger at the betrayal. Worse than it would be to hear her say that anything beyond their relationship as officers is dead and gone. Or get cuttingly formal in a way she never would have in Maquis days.

“Perhaps you should return to the Captain now that you have more data.”

“What?” Anger. That’s better. So much better than the passive almost submissive behavior. 

“I’m your superior officer, and I told...”

“That’s none of her business.”

“It’s a breach of...”

“Talk about Starfleet protocol right now and we can settle this as Maquis.”

She’s livid now and he doesn’t feel the protective, comfortable anger he usually feels when they’re at this point. B’Elanna’s too beautiful when her emotions take over. And that’s so much easier to ignore when he shares them. Right now she needs to leave. Or they might end up even deeper in this mess they’re in. He takes a step back. And another. 

“You consulted her about...”

“When I thought it was just me.”

Her eyes are still narrowed, but her voice is calm again, almost pleading. He could sleep with her right now and she’d let him. Not just let him. She’d want him to. And he’s dangerously tempted to give in, consequences be damned. 

“I need to meditate before I sleep.”

For a moment she remains silent, but she doesn’t leave. When she speaks again he can barely hear her. “Is it the forehead?”

“The forehead?” He repeats, stupidly. It takes all of five seconds. “No. It’s got nothing to do with...”

“So she didn’t look like I did when...”

“No.” 

“But you didn’t care about the command structure when...”

“It’s not just that. It’s about medicine wheels. And being the first person you’d be willing to talk to when you’re in trouble.”

“And you think that’s you if you’d rather touch an illusion of me projected by someone who’s...”

That’s a fine point. So fine indeed that she really, really needs to leave. Right now.

“I do have to meditate. We can’t just...”

It turns out that they can. That she can stand on tipped toes in front of him, their lips pressed together. Her body against his. And he grabs her, pulling her closer still while his tongue effortlessly finds its way inside her mouth. They need to stop this. Now. And they do, just when he’s ready to pick her up and... she pulls back and he lets go instinctively. 

“You need to meditate.” She whispers and she’s breathtaking in that he literally cannot breathe for a few seconds when she steps back, one corner of her mouth twitching up as crowfeet crinkle beside her eyes. Never trust a Maquis, no matter which uniform she wears. He’s taught her how to catch people off guard. Though never with this in mind. “We should talk tomorrow. Let me know when it’s convenient.”

“I will,” he says as calmly as he can manage when her tongue darts out to wet her lips. 

She nods and leaves. Quickly. 

And it’s a blessing because it’s too difficult, keeping the smirk from his own lips. Incorrigible Maquis. Insecure and quick-tempered, mischievous and way too smart. And it’s worse than simple lust. Lust can be dealt with, one part meditation, one part exercise, one part cold showers. But that’s not it. Not with that smirk of hers. With those eyes. It’s far worse.


End file.
